Chapter Seventeen.Quavering among Crotchets.“It is very horrid in some things,” thought Dick Smithson as he would think of his position at night in the comparative silence of his narrow bed—comparative silence, for each of his brother bandsmen had a habit of performing nocturnes on nasal instruments in a way not pleasing to a weary, sleepless person—“very horrid.”For so many things jarred: the want of privacy, the common ways of his companions, the roughness of the food, and the annoyances—petty annoyances—he had to submit to from the little bandmaster.But Dick did not repent. He was Dick now—Dick Smithson—even to himself; and after the first few days, far from repenting the wild step he had taken, he rejoiced in the calm rest which seemed to have come over him. There was no one to accuse him of dishonourableness, to remind him of the death of his cousin, no relations to meet who would reproach him for all that he had done.There was ease at night, so little time for thought. The military routine kept him busy; and as he had embraced this life, he worked like a slave to master his duties, and the time rapidly glided by.There was always a smile for him whenever he met the big sergeant, while the others he had encountered that first day were ready with a friendly nod.There was a band practice one afternoon, and Dick took his place with the rest, listening to the men, who, whatever their instrument, began to run through difficult bits regardless of their neighbours; but there was only one person present whom this chaos of wild sounds affected—to wit, the recruit, who listened with an intense longing to ram his fingers in his ears, as one man began to cut and slash out notes from the trombone in the key of G; while another practised difficult runs in E flat upon the clarionet, another ran through a strain in F upon the cornet, and the hautbois-performer, the bassoon, the contra-bass, and the keyed-trumpet toiled away in major, minor, flat, sharp, or in whatever key his music might be set.The bewildering, maddening row—it deserved no other term—went on till the bandmaster, looking mildly important in his spectacles, entered the room, walked up to his stand—across which a baton had been laid—gave a sharp tap, and there was instant silence, broken, however, by sundry dull pops, as men drew the crooks out of their brass instruments, and drained away the condensed breath.“We’ll try that march fromForstagain,” said the bandmaster; and the men began to turn over the leaves of their music, while others adjusted the cards ready upon their brass instruments.Dick stood by the regular flute-player, who, rather grudgingly, made room at his tall stand; and then, as the bandmaster called attention with a fresh tap of the baton and opened the score, the flautist said:“Beg pardon, Mr Wilkins, sir; here’s the recruit. Is he to stand with me?”Dick waited, curious to hear what followed, and incensed at what did; for, when the bandmaster entered, he had glanced sharply at the now bandsman, and then passed on.“Eh! what recruit?” said the little leader, looking up and giving a start as he made believe to see Dick for the first time. “Oh, that young man? Well, perhaps he had better stand by you, and then he may pick up what he can. This is a difficult piece.”“I know Gounod’s work pretty well, sir,” said Dick, quietly.“Oh, do you!” said the bandmaster, with a little jerky laugh, like that of a spiteful woman. “Now, then; what’s your name, sir?”“Smithson,” said Dick, feeling as if he would like to kick the mean-spirited little cad.“Oh, Smithson, eh?—son of the great Smith!”He looked round, twinkling, for a laugh to follow what he meant for a joke; and the obsequious bandsmen uttered a sniggering kind of concreted grin, followed instantly by a loud-toned sonorousPhoomp! from the huge bell-mouth of the contra-bass.“What do you mean by that, Banks?” cried the bandmaster, as soon as there was silence, for the men had burst into a loud and general roar.“Beg pardon, sir; I was listening, sir,” said the offender. “It was only one of those deep notes I was doubtful about.”“Then don’t you let it occur again, sir! It was an excuse for a marked show of disrespect, and I won’t have it! Here is the colonel complaining about the inefficiency of our band, and people are saying that the 310th is far better—which is a lie, a ridiculous lie—but I want to know how our band is to become efficient if there is not more discipline maintained?”“Beg pardon, sir?”“Silence, sir! Attend to what I say! I have long noted a want of attention among the men—a mutinous spirit—and I won’t allow it! While I’m bandmaster, I’ll be treated with proper respect; and, mark this, our band shall be efficient, and the members shall practise till they are!”He tapped the music-stand sharply, raised his baton, and then went on talking.“Here, you!” he cried. “Smithson, didn’t you say?”“Yes, sir.”“What did you say?”“Smithson, sir.”“How dare you!” yelled the bandmaster, scarlet now with passion, for the men burst out laughing again. “Don’t you try to crack your miserable, contemptible jokes on me, sir!”“That was no joke, sir,” said Dick.“No, sir, it was not!” said the bandmaster, sharply. “You’ll find jokes dangerous things to crack here, sir!”There was a murmur of acquiescence, and the little man smiled approval.“Thought you were alluding to my name, sir,” said Dick, apologetically.“Indeed, sir?” said the bandmaster, sarcastically. “Not such an attractive name that I would care to allude to it.”“Oh, you meant about the music ofFaust, sir?” said Dick, pronouncing the name of the opera as a German would—something likeFowst.“The music of what?” said the bandmaster, screwing up his face as if the sound were unpleasant to his ears.“Gounod’s opera, sir, I said. I know it pretty well.”“Dear me! you seem to know everything ‘pretty well;’ perhaps you know how to conduct ‘pretty well,’ and would like to take my stick and lead?”Dick looked down at the music, but made no reply, though the bandmaster waited for a few moments.“Then I suppose I may go on. Of course, the colonel has a right to interfere, though I was not aware that he was a musician; and I think I have had some little experience in musical matters, and if I had proper material I could produce as good results as any man in the service; but, hampered as I am by incompetents, and interfered with in matters of which I ought to be the best judge, I don’t know what can be expected, I’m sure.—The March fromForst.”There was a sharp tapping of the baton, and Dick drew back to go and sit down, when the spectacles glistened in his direction again.“Keep your place, sir,” shouted the little tyrant. “You can, as you are here, try the flute part. Be careful!”Dick felt a singing in his ears, and his fellow-flautist scowled.Then there was a flourish of the leader’s stick in the air, and the brass instruments set off in the familiar march, every man blowing his loudest, and keeping very fair, well-marked time, to the end of the strain, to be followed by thepianomovement, in which the flutes took the lead, with hautbois and clarionet, of course properly supported by the bass.There was a peculiar jarring in Dick’s ears before the second bar was played; and, before they were half-way through eight, the conductor’s stick was tapping the music-stand fiercely.“Stop! stop! stop!” he yelled. “My good fellow, this won’t do; you’re flat—horribly flat!”Richard stood with his eyes fixed upon his music, expecting to see his companion alter the tuning-slide of his flute; but the man waited, with a supercilious smile upon his face, and the leader went on—“Do you hear, you Smithson? That’s horribly flat. Now, then, blow A.”Dick raised his instrument and blew a pure, clear note in perfect tune.“Not that one; harder; your upper A.”A note an octave higher rang out pure and clear.“That’s better! Now begin again: the soft movement, please.”Mr Wilkins waved his wand, and a fresh start was made, but it was more melancholy than the first. It sounded as if the women gathered in the marketplace to welcome the return of the German warriors had set up a howl of misery, which was ended by the crack of the conductor’s stick.“Stop! stop! stop!” he yelled. “You are blowing out of tune, sir! This is horrible! we cannot have a row like cats in the band!”This was a legitimate occasion for mirth, so the men laughed, and Mr Wilkins looked pleased and the spectacles twinkled.“Now, again; and be careful, sir, if you are to play with us. Now, then!”Down came the baton, two bars were played, and the result was so much worse that the bandmaster banged his music-stand frantically.“Stand back, sir!” he yelled. “This is ridiculous! What does the colonel mean? What do you mean, sir, by pretending you know the music? What? What’s that you say?”“I said ‘I beg pardon,’ sir,” began Dick.“Beg pardon! Why, you are an impostor, sir; and if you are to stop here, I shall resign!—What?”“I only wanted to say, sir,” continued Dick, quietly, “that this last time I didn’t blow a note.”“Well, of all the impudence! Then, pray, sir, what was the meaning of that hideous discord?”“I don’t know, sir. I presume that someone’s instrument is not in tune.”“Someone’s instrument not in tune!” cried the bandmaster. “Here, Jones, Morris, Bigham, run through half a dozen bars.”He waved his wand, and the three musicians blew together without the bass and tenor instruments, with a worse effect than ever, and the listening brasses burst out into a fresh roar of laughter; while Dick had hard work, in his triumph, to suppress a smile.“Then it’s you, Jones!”“No, sir,” said the flute-player. “I’m all right!”“You can’t be!” cried the other two men, indignantly.“He’s playing in the wrong key,” said the first.“That I ain’t!” cried the flute-player. “I’m all right, I tell you! It was the new chap.”“How could it be the new chap when he wasnotblowing, idiot?” cried the bandmaster, angrily, trying hard to hedge and preserve his character for consistency. “Here, you Smithson, run through those few bars with the others. No; not you, Jones.”The flautist sulkily lowered his flute, while the theme was now played as a trio with admirable effect.“Humph! not bad—not bad at all,” said Wilkins, as a murmur of satisfaction arose from the men.Meanwhile, the flautist was turning over his flute and glancing from it to the beautiful instrument Dick held.“Now,” cried the leader, “run through that again, Jones—or, no, with the clarionet.”He beat time and the two instruments sounded; but, at the end of the first bar, the clarionet-player took the reed from his lips.“’Tain’t good enough, sir!” he said.“Good enough!” cried Wilkins, angrily; “it’s disgraceful!”“Yer never thought it disgraceful till this new chap come,” cried the discomfited flute-player. “Who’s to play proper on a thing like this? Look at his!”“Hold your tongue, stoopid!” whispered the nearest man. “You’ll be getting yourself in a row.”“Look at his flute!” cried Wilkins. “Why, he’d get more music out of a tin whistle than you would out of his. Here, you Smithson, see what you can do with that flute. Now, my lads, once again.”Dick took Jones’s flute unwillingly for more than one reason. He felt that he was making an enemy of the man; but there was no time for hesitation, and, as they struck up, he played his part admirably upon the strange instrument, and then stood waiting.“Give him his flute,” said Wilkins, shortly. “Don’t you go abusing our band instruments again, young man, or you’ll be finding yourself sent back to the ranks. Now, please, we’re losing time.”And so the practice went on Dick, feeling that he was making enemies all round till, about an hour after, when he was in the long-room, and half a dozen of the bandsmen came in together, looked at him, then at one another, and one of them said—“I’m glad you’ve joined.”“We’ve been thinking it over, and we’re going to see if we can’t work up some better music now. Never you mind about Wilkins; his bark’s worse than his bite.”“And he likes to show off,” said another. “Wants people to think what a clever one he is. We’ll have some quiet practices together, if you like.”“I shall be very glad,” said Dick eagerly.“That’s right, and you can give us a few hints. Wilkins turned nasty through that snubbing he got over yonder, at the mess-room, but he’ll soon come round. I’m sorry, though, about old Jones.”“So am I,” cried Dick; “I quite felt for him this afternoon.”“Yes, he never ought to have been put to music. I hope he won’t turn nasty,” said the first speaker, “for he’s got a temper of his own. But, there, you needn’t mind him.”“No,” thought Dick, “I need not mind him; but I don’t like making enemies, all the same.”
“It is very horrid in some things,” thought Dick Smithson as he would think of his position at night in the comparative silence of his narrow bed—comparative silence, for each of his brother bandsmen had a habit of performing nocturnes on nasal instruments in a way not pleasing to a weary, sleepless person—“very horrid.”
For so many things jarred: the want of privacy, the common ways of his companions, the roughness of the food, and the annoyances—petty annoyances—he had to submit to from the little bandmaster.
But Dick did not repent. He was Dick now—Dick Smithson—even to himself; and after the first few days, far from repenting the wild step he had taken, he rejoiced in the calm rest which seemed to have come over him. There was no one to accuse him of dishonourableness, to remind him of the death of his cousin, no relations to meet who would reproach him for all that he had done.
There was ease at night, so little time for thought. The military routine kept him busy; and as he had embraced this life, he worked like a slave to master his duties, and the time rapidly glided by.
There was always a smile for him whenever he met the big sergeant, while the others he had encountered that first day were ready with a friendly nod.
There was a band practice one afternoon, and Dick took his place with the rest, listening to the men, who, whatever their instrument, began to run through difficult bits regardless of their neighbours; but there was only one person present whom this chaos of wild sounds affected—to wit, the recruit, who listened with an intense longing to ram his fingers in his ears, as one man began to cut and slash out notes from the trombone in the key of G; while another practised difficult runs in E flat upon the clarionet, another ran through a strain in F upon the cornet, and the hautbois-performer, the bassoon, the contra-bass, and the keyed-trumpet toiled away in major, minor, flat, sharp, or in whatever key his music might be set.
The bewildering, maddening row—it deserved no other term—went on till the bandmaster, looking mildly important in his spectacles, entered the room, walked up to his stand—across which a baton had been laid—gave a sharp tap, and there was instant silence, broken, however, by sundry dull pops, as men drew the crooks out of their brass instruments, and drained away the condensed breath.
“We’ll try that march fromForstagain,” said the bandmaster; and the men began to turn over the leaves of their music, while others adjusted the cards ready upon their brass instruments.
Dick stood by the regular flute-player, who, rather grudgingly, made room at his tall stand; and then, as the bandmaster called attention with a fresh tap of the baton and opened the score, the flautist said:
“Beg pardon, Mr Wilkins, sir; here’s the recruit. Is he to stand with me?”
Dick waited, curious to hear what followed, and incensed at what did; for, when the bandmaster entered, he had glanced sharply at the now bandsman, and then passed on.
“Eh! what recruit?” said the little leader, looking up and giving a start as he made believe to see Dick for the first time. “Oh, that young man? Well, perhaps he had better stand by you, and then he may pick up what he can. This is a difficult piece.”
“I know Gounod’s work pretty well, sir,” said Dick, quietly.
“Oh, do you!” said the bandmaster, with a little jerky laugh, like that of a spiteful woman. “Now, then; what’s your name, sir?”
“Smithson,” said Dick, feeling as if he would like to kick the mean-spirited little cad.
“Oh, Smithson, eh?—son of the great Smith!”
He looked round, twinkling, for a laugh to follow what he meant for a joke; and the obsequious bandsmen uttered a sniggering kind of concreted grin, followed instantly by a loud-toned sonorousPhoomp! from the huge bell-mouth of the contra-bass.
“What do you mean by that, Banks?” cried the bandmaster, as soon as there was silence, for the men had burst into a loud and general roar.
“Beg pardon, sir; I was listening, sir,” said the offender. “It was only one of those deep notes I was doubtful about.”
“Then don’t you let it occur again, sir! It was an excuse for a marked show of disrespect, and I won’t have it! Here is the colonel complaining about the inefficiency of our band, and people are saying that the 310th is far better—which is a lie, a ridiculous lie—but I want to know how our band is to become efficient if there is not more discipline maintained?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Silence, sir! Attend to what I say! I have long noted a want of attention among the men—a mutinous spirit—and I won’t allow it! While I’m bandmaster, I’ll be treated with proper respect; and, mark this, our band shall be efficient, and the members shall practise till they are!”
He tapped the music-stand sharply, raised his baton, and then went on talking.
“Here, you!” he cried. “Smithson, didn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you say?”
“Smithson, sir.”
“How dare you!” yelled the bandmaster, scarlet now with passion, for the men burst out laughing again. “Don’t you try to crack your miserable, contemptible jokes on me, sir!”
“That was no joke, sir,” said Dick.
“No, sir, it was not!” said the bandmaster, sharply. “You’ll find jokes dangerous things to crack here, sir!”
There was a murmur of acquiescence, and the little man smiled approval.
“Thought you were alluding to my name, sir,” said Dick, apologetically.
“Indeed, sir?” said the bandmaster, sarcastically. “Not such an attractive name that I would care to allude to it.”
“Oh, you meant about the music ofFaust, sir?” said Dick, pronouncing the name of the opera as a German would—something likeFowst.
“The music of what?” said the bandmaster, screwing up his face as if the sound were unpleasant to his ears.
“Gounod’s opera, sir, I said. I know it pretty well.”
“Dear me! you seem to know everything ‘pretty well;’ perhaps you know how to conduct ‘pretty well,’ and would like to take my stick and lead?”
Dick looked down at the music, but made no reply, though the bandmaster waited for a few moments.
“Then I suppose I may go on. Of course, the colonel has a right to interfere, though I was not aware that he was a musician; and I think I have had some little experience in musical matters, and if I had proper material I could produce as good results as any man in the service; but, hampered as I am by incompetents, and interfered with in matters of which I ought to be the best judge, I don’t know what can be expected, I’m sure.—The March fromForst.”
There was a sharp tapping of the baton, and Dick drew back to go and sit down, when the spectacles glistened in his direction again.
“Keep your place, sir,” shouted the little tyrant. “You can, as you are here, try the flute part. Be careful!”
Dick felt a singing in his ears, and his fellow-flautist scowled.
Then there was a flourish of the leader’s stick in the air, and the brass instruments set off in the familiar march, every man blowing his loudest, and keeping very fair, well-marked time, to the end of the strain, to be followed by thepianomovement, in which the flutes took the lead, with hautbois and clarionet, of course properly supported by the bass.
There was a peculiar jarring in Dick’s ears before the second bar was played; and, before they were half-way through eight, the conductor’s stick was tapping the music-stand fiercely.
“Stop! stop! stop!” he yelled. “My good fellow, this won’t do; you’re flat—horribly flat!”
Richard stood with his eyes fixed upon his music, expecting to see his companion alter the tuning-slide of his flute; but the man waited, with a supercilious smile upon his face, and the leader went on—
“Do you hear, you Smithson? That’s horribly flat. Now, then, blow A.”
Dick raised his instrument and blew a pure, clear note in perfect tune.
“Not that one; harder; your upper A.”
A note an octave higher rang out pure and clear.
“That’s better! Now begin again: the soft movement, please.”
Mr Wilkins waved his wand, and a fresh start was made, but it was more melancholy than the first. It sounded as if the women gathered in the marketplace to welcome the return of the German warriors had set up a howl of misery, which was ended by the crack of the conductor’s stick.
“Stop! stop! stop!” he yelled. “You are blowing out of tune, sir! This is horrible! we cannot have a row like cats in the band!”
This was a legitimate occasion for mirth, so the men laughed, and Mr Wilkins looked pleased and the spectacles twinkled.
“Now, again; and be careful, sir, if you are to play with us. Now, then!”
Down came the baton, two bars were played, and the result was so much worse that the bandmaster banged his music-stand frantically.
“Stand back, sir!” he yelled. “This is ridiculous! What does the colonel mean? What do you mean, sir, by pretending you know the music? What? What’s that you say?”
“I said ‘I beg pardon,’ sir,” began Dick.
“Beg pardon! Why, you are an impostor, sir; and if you are to stop here, I shall resign!—What?”
“I only wanted to say, sir,” continued Dick, quietly, “that this last time I didn’t blow a note.”
“Well, of all the impudence! Then, pray, sir, what was the meaning of that hideous discord?”
“I don’t know, sir. I presume that someone’s instrument is not in tune.”
“Someone’s instrument not in tune!” cried the bandmaster. “Here, Jones, Morris, Bigham, run through half a dozen bars.”
He waved his wand, and the three musicians blew together without the bass and tenor instruments, with a worse effect than ever, and the listening brasses burst out into a fresh roar of laughter; while Dick had hard work, in his triumph, to suppress a smile.
“Then it’s you, Jones!”
“No, sir,” said the flute-player. “I’m all right!”
“You can’t be!” cried the other two men, indignantly.
“He’s playing in the wrong key,” said the first.
“That I ain’t!” cried the flute-player. “I’m all right, I tell you! It was the new chap.”
“How could it be the new chap when he wasnotblowing, idiot?” cried the bandmaster, angrily, trying hard to hedge and preserve his character for consistency. “Here, you Smithson, run through those few bars with the others. No; not you, Jones.”
The flautist sulkily lowered his flute, while the theme was now played as a trio with admirable effect.
“Humph! not bad—not bad at all,” said Wilkins, as a murmur of satisfaction arose from the men.
Meanwhile, the flautist was turning over his flute and glancing from it to the beautiful instrument Dick held.
“Now,” cried the leader, “run through that again, Jones—or, no, with the clarionet.”
He beat time and the two instruments sounded; but, at the end of the first bar, the clarionet-player took the reed from his lips.
“’Tain’t good enough, sir!” he said.
“Good enough!” cried Wilkins, angrily; “it’s disgraceful!”
“Yer never thought it disgraceful till this new chap come,” cried the discomfited flute-player. “Who’s to play proper on a thing like this? Look at his!”
“Hold your tongue, stoopid!” whispered the nearest man. “You’ll be getting yourself in a row.”
“Look at his flute!” cried Wilkins. “Why, he’d get more music out of a tin whistle than you would out of his. Here, you Smithson, see what you can do with that flute. Now, my lads, once again.”
Dick took Jones’s flute unwillingly for more than one reason. He felt that he was making an enemy of the man; but there was no time for hesitation, and, as they struck up, he played his part admirably upon the strange instrument, and then stood waiting.
“Give him his flute,” said Wilkins, shortly. “Don’t you go abusing our band instruments again, young man, or you’ll be finding yourself sent back to the ranks. Now, please, we’re losing time.”
And so the practice went on Dick, feeling that he was making enemies all round till, about an hour after, when he was in the long-room, and half a dozen of the bandsmen came in together, looked at him, then at one another, and one of them said—
“I’m glad you’ve joined.”
“We’ve been thinking it over, and we’re going to see if we can’t work up some better music now. Never you mind about Wilkins; his bark’s worse than his bite.”
“And he likes to show off,” said another. “Wants people to think what a clever one he is. We’ll have some quiet practices together, if you like.”
“I shall be very glad,” said Dick eagerly.
“That’s right, and you can give us a few hints. Wilkins turned nasty through that snubbing he got over yonder, at the mess-room, but he’ll soon come round. I’m sorry, though, about old Jones.”
“So am I,” cried Dick; “I quite felt for him this afternoon.”
“Yes, he never ought to have been put to music. I hope he won’t turn nasty,” said the first speaker, “for he’s got a temper of his own. But, there, you needn’t mind him.”
“No,” thought Dick, “I need not mind him; but I don’t like making enemies, all the same.”
Chapter Eighteen.Dick finds a Pupil.“No one would know me now,” said the recruit to himself one morning as he glanced at his face in a piece of looking-glass, for the military barber had been operating upon his head, and had—as thePunchman said in the hot weather in allusion to his hair—“cut it to the bone.”For the first time Richard Frayne dressed in his tightly-fitting, stiff uniform.“Hallo, Flutey!” said one of the men; “I was looking for you. Got ’em on, then?”“Yes,” said Dick, smiling. “Do they fit?”“Oh, yes, pretty tidy. Feel all right?”“No; I don’t think I can get my hand up level with my mouth, and the tunic feels as if it would split up the back, and the buttons go flying, the first time I move.”“Oh, that’ll be all right. Sure to feel a bit stiff at first. I say, he has padded you out well in the chest and over the shoulders.”“Yes, far too much.”“Not a bit of it. Makes you look broader-chested and square-shouldered—more of the man. But, here, Lieutenant Lacey wants you up at his quarters. Sent that chuckle-headed Joe Todd, his servant, to fetch you directly.”“What does he want?” cried Dick, aghast with the idea that something had been found out.“Go and ask him.”“But I must change first.”“Nonsense! Go as you are. You’ve got to wear the red now,” added the man, with a grin.Dick went down into the barrack yard, to find the lieutenant’s servant waiting, and followed him, with the peculiar tremor increasing, and a cold, dank perspiration breaking out about his temples and in the palms of his hands.A few minutes after he was ushered into the handsomely-furnished rooms which formed the lieutenant’s quarters; and he felt a pang shoot through him for the moment as the piano in one corner, and some music and a flute upon the table, recalled his own rooms at Draycott’s.But his thoughts were back directly to his troubles, and he felt a kind of momentary relief on finding that there was no one in the sitting-room.“I’ll go and tell him you’re here,” said the man who had fetched him, and he lifted a curtain, caught his foot against a fold, stumbled, and drove his head with a crash against the panel of the door beyond. Then, as the curtain fell behind him, Dick heard, in smothered tones:—“I had you out of the ranks, Joe Todd, for my servant; I don’t want a battering-ram.”“Beg pardon, sir. Haxident.”“Accident! That’s the third time you have done it within a week. Torn the curtain?”“No, sir; don’t think so. Hurt my head.”“I don’t believe it, Joe. A wooden door could not hurt your head! You may have cracked the panel!”“No, sir; all right, sir.”“Then take those clothes and brush them again. The trousers have mud-splashes as high as the knees. And take those boots, too; I can’t wear them like that.”The man came out of the inner room with a portion of his master’s uniform under his arm and a pair of boots, swinging by the tags, one of which badly-cleaned articles he dropped in trying to open the outer door, the handle of which Dick turned for him, so that he could pass out.As Dick closed the door he was conscious of a rustling behind him, and he turned smartly, to find himself face to face with the great lieutenant, gorgeous now in shawl-pattern smoking-trousers and purple velvet lounging-coat.“Now for it!” he thought.“And you might have been an officer,” said the lieutenant, shaking his head at Dick sadly, while all the blood in the lad’s body seemed to run to his heart.“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” faltered Dick, as he began to think that he would have to get away again, and then recalled the fact that he could not without being looked upon as a deserter.“I said ‘And you might have been an officer.’”“Yes,” said Dick bitterly, and turning and speaking as he felt that he was driven to bay.“I’m glad you feel it,” said the lieutenant, letting himself sink down into a lounge.“I do, sir—bitterly,” replied Dick.“If I were not as patient as a lamb, I should have kicked him out of the place a year ago. Of course, it didn’t matter before you, but it might have been the colonel or the major; and, though there is a way out through my bedroom, that blundering ass must bring my boots and clothes through my sitting-room!”Dick felt as if he had been respited after condemnation, and began to breathe freely.“You heard him run his head against the door, of course?”“Yes, sir.”“But it wouldn’t break; everything else does. He’ll ruin me before he has done.—I have sent for you, Smithson,” said the lieutenant, “because I want you to give me some lessons on the flute.”“Oh, with pleasure, sir,” began Dick. “I—I beg your pardon, sir. Of course, if you wish it.”“I hope it will be with pleasure, Smithson,” said the lieutenant, smiling; “but I’m afraid it will not be; for, between ourselves, I am very dull over music.”“I used to think I was, sir,” said Dick; “but I worked hard till I could play a bit.”“A bit!” said the lieutenant, smiling. “Ah, well, I won’t flatter you. I should like you to come often and play with me—duets and pieces. The fact is, Smithson, I want to perform something in—in—in public one evening—a duet. I have been thinking that I might play the first part and you the second. What do you think?”“I think the same as you do, sir,” said Dick. “When would you like to begin?”“Well, the fact is, Smithson, I am rather pressed for time.”“I will come in at any hour you appoint, sir—that is, if there is no band practice.”“Oh, the colonel will speak to Wilkins about that, Smithson; but you do not understand me. I have plenty of time, but I am pressed—anxious to play a duet or two as soon as possible.”“I understand, sir,” said Dick, scanning the handsome face and athletic mould of the young officer, as the feeling grew upon him that the former was what some people would call rather mild; “but I am no teacher, would you like Mr Wilkins to give you some lessons?”“No, Smithson,” said the lieutenant; “that I really should not. I want you, and I want you to treat all this as confidential.”“But it is sure to be known, sir.”“That you are giving me lessons, yes; but not the style of lesson. When could you begin?”Dick glanced at the flute.“Would you like a lesson now, sir?”“Yes, exactly; but you have no instrument.”“But you have, sir; and I could help you better without.”“I’m afraid not, Smithson. You see, I should want to hear the air played at the same time.”“I could run that through as an accompaniment on the piano.”“You could?” cried the lieutenant, staring.“Well enough, perhaps, for that, sir.”“Then, let’s begin at once.”“Have you selected an air, sir?”“Well—er—yes,” faltered the great fellow. “I have—er—chosen two—duets. Here they are.”He handed the music, and Dick took it up, glancing at each piece in turn; while the young officer looked warm and uncomfortable, watching his visitor uneasily.“‘Flow on, thou Shining River;’ ‘Oh, Happy, Happy Fair!’” read Dick. “Both beautiful melodies;” and, taking the former, he crossed to the piano and ran through the melody, and then the accompaniment, with plenty of expression; while the lieutenant sat upon his chair with his eyes glistening from excitement.“Now this piece,” he cried; and Dick ran through the second.“Why, Smithson,” cried the lieutenant, “you are a wonderful musician! I—I’m afraid that you will be ready to laugh at me.”“Oh, no, sir. Now, then—I suppose your flute is of the right pitch?”“I—er—think so.”“Try, sir.”Dick struck the chord of the key in which the piece was set, and the young officer blew a note of a most uncertain sound.“Fully a quarter of a tone out, sir,” said Dick, thoroughly in earnest now over his task. “Shall I alter the slide, sir?”“If you please.”Dick altered the slide again and again till his pupil blew the note in perfect accord, and then they began,with the air played slowly out of time—a most feeble performance—right to the end of the strain, when the lieutenant lowered his flute, and looked at his master with a rather pitiful, but comically perplexed, expression.“Horribly bad, isn’t it?” he said.“Well, it might be a good deal better, sir.”“Yes, of course. Will you be good enough to run through it?”“No, sir; I think it would be better not. I want to encourage you—not discourage; of course, I could play it more perfectly, but then I have practised for years.”“Yes; I suppose so.”“But I can make you play that twice as well in a week.”“Do you think so?” cried the lieutenant, eagerly.“I’m sure of it, sir. Now, again, please. I’ll play each note on the piano, and I want you to blow that note firmly and with a full breath. Never mind about time, blow each note as if it were a minim, giving a breath to each.”It was a complete change of position, the officer diligently obeying his subordinate, and working hard, if with no brilliant effect, till quite a couple of hours had passed, when he laid down his flute.“I shall never do it.”Dick smiled.“You shall do it, sir,” he cried. “I’ll make you.”“You will, Smithson? Ah! if you only can! When will you come again? I want to play it so very badly.”“To-morrow, sir,” said Dick; and he went back toward his quarters, wondering why the lieutenant wanted to play those two old-fashioned airs.“Surely he does not want to serenade someone.”Dick laughed quite cheerily as he thought of the lieutenant’s handsome face, and the idea tickled him for the moment; but the next moment he sighed and felt angry with himself for his mirthful display, and forgot the lieutenant’s lessons till the next day.
“No one would know me now,” said the recruit to himself one morning as he glanced at his face in a piece of looking-glass, for the military barber had been operating upon his head, and had—as thePunchman said in the hot weather in allusion to his hair—“cut it to the bone.”
For the first time Richard Frayne dressed in his tightly-fitting, stiff uniform.
“Hallo, Flutey!” said one of the men; “I was looking for you. Got ’em on, then?”
“Yes,” said Dick, smiling. “Do they fit?”
“Oh, yes, pretty tidy. Feel all right?”
“No; I don’t think I can get my hand up level with my mouth, and the tunic feels as if it would split up the back, and the buttons go flying, the first time I move.”
“Oh, that’ll be all right. Sure to feel a bit stiff at first. I say, he has padded you out well in the chest and over the shoulders.”
“Yes, far too much.”
“Not a bit of it. Makes you look broader-chested and square-shouldered—more of the man. But, here, Lieutenant Lacey wants you up at his quarters. Sent that chuckle-headed Joe Todd, his servant, to fetch you directly.”
“What does he want?” cried Dick, aghast with the idea that something had been found out.
“Go and ask him.”
“But I must change first.”
“Nonsense! Go as you are. You’ve got to wear the red now,” added the man, with a grin.
Dick went down into the barrack yard, to find the lieutenant’s servant waiting, and followed him, with the peculiar tremor increasing, and a cold, dank perspiration breaking out about his temples and in the palms of his hands.
A few minutes after he was ushered into the handsomely-furnished rooms which formed the lieutenant’s quarters; and he felt a pang shoot through him for the moment as the piano in one corner, and some music and a flute upon the table, recalled his own rooms at Draycott’s.
But his thoughts were back directly to his troubles, and he felt a kind of momentary relief on finding that there was no one in the sitting-room.
“I’ll go and tell him you’re here,” said the man who had fetched him, and he lifted a curtain, caught his foot against a fold, stumbled, and drove his head with a crash against the panel of the door beyond. Then, as the curtain fell behind him, Dick heard, in smothered tones:—
“I had you out of the ranks, Joe Todd, for my servant; I don’t want a battering-ram.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Haxident.”
“Accident! That’s the third time you have done it within a week. Torn the curtain?”
“No, sir; don’t think so. Hurt my head.”
“I don’t believe it, Joe. A wooden door could not hurt your head! You may have cracked the panel!”
“No, sir; all right, sir.”
“Then take those clothes and brush them again. The trousers have mud-splashes as high as the knees. And take those boots, too; I can’t wear them like that.”
The man came out of the inner room with a portion of his master’s uniform under his arm and a pair of boots, swinging by the tags, one of which badly-cleaned articles he dropped in trying to open the outer door, the handle of which Dick turned for him, so that he could pass out.
As Dick closed the door he was conscious of a rustling behind him, and he turned smartly, to find himself face to face with the great lieutenant, gorgeous now in shawl-pattern smoking-trousers and purple velvet lounging-coat.
“Now for it!” he thought.
“And you might have been an officer,” said the lieutenant, shaking his head at Dick sadly, while all the blood in the lad’s body seemed to run to his heart.
“I—I beg your pardon, sir,” faltered Dick, as he began to think that he would have to get away again, and then recalled the fact that he could not without being looked upon as a deserter.
“I said ‘And you might have been an officer.’”
“Yes,” said Dick bitterly, and turning and speaking as he felt that he was driven to bay.
“I’m glad you feel it,” said the lieutenant, letting himself sink down into a lounge.
“I do, sir—bitterly,” replied Dick.
“If I were not as patient as a lamb, I should have kicked him out of the place a year ago. Of course, it didn’t matter before you, but it might have been the colonel or the major; and, though there is a way out through my bedroom, that blundering ass must bring my boots and clothes through my sitting-room!”
Dick felt as if he had been respited after condemnation, and began to breathe freely.
“You heard him run his head against the door, of course?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But it wouldn’t break; everything else does. He’ll ruin me before he has done.—I have sent for you, Smithson,” said the lieutenant, “because I want you to give me some lessons on the flute.”
“Oh, with pleasure, sir,” began Dick. “I—I beg your pardon, sir. Of course, if you wish it.”
“I hope it will be with pleasure, Smithson,” said the lieutenant, smiling; “but I’m afraid it will not be; for, between ourselves, I am very dull over music.”
“I used to think I was, sir,” said Dick; “but I worked hard till I could play a bit.”
“A bit!” said the lieutenant, smiling. “Ah, well, I won’t flatter you. I should like you to come often and play with me—duets and pieces. The fact is, Smithson, I want to perform something in—in—in public one evening—a duet. I have been thinking that I might play the first part and you the second. What do you think?”
“I think the same as you do, sir,” said Dick. “When would you like to begin?”
“Well, the fact is, Smithson, I am rather pressed for time.”
“I will come in at any hour you appoint, sir—that is, if there is no band practice.”
“Oh, the colonel will speak to Wilkins about that, Smithson; but you do not understand me. I have plenty of time, but I am pressed—anxious to play a duet or two as soon as possible.”
“I understand, sir,” said Dick, scanning the handsome face and athletic mould of the young officer, as the feeling grew upon him that the former was what some people would call rather mild; “but I am no teacher, would you like Mr Wilkins to give you some lessons?”
“No, Smithson,” said the lieutenant; “that I really should not. I want you, and I want you to treat all this as confidential.”
“But it is sure to be known, sir.”
“That you are giving me lessons, yes; but not the style of lesson. When could you begin?”
Dick glanced at the flute.
“Would you like a lesson now, sir?”
“Yes, exactly; but you have no instrument.”
“But you have, sir; and I could help you better without.”
“I’m afraid not, Smithson. You see, I should want to hear the air played at the same time.”
“I could run that through as an accompaniment on the piano.”
“You could?” cried the lieutenant, staring.
“Well enough, perhaps, for that, sir.”
“Then, let’s begin at once.”
“Have you selected an air, sir?”
“Well—er—yes,” faltered the great fellow. “I have—er—chosen two—duets. Here they are.”
He handed the music, and Dick took it up, glancing at each piece in turn; while the young officer looked warm and uncomfortable, watching his visitor uneasily.
“‘Flow on, thou Shining River;’ ‘Oh, Happy, Happy Fair!’” read Dick. “Both beautiful melodies;” and, taking the former, he crossed to the piano and ran through the melody, and then the accompaniment, with plenty of expression; while the lieutenant sat upon his chair with his eyes glistening from excitement.
“Now this piece,” he cried; and Dick ran through the second.
“Why, Smithson,” cried the lieutenant, “you are a wonderful musician! I—I’m afraid that you will be ready to laugh at me.”
“Oh, no, sir. Now, then—I suppose your flute is of the right pitch?”
“I—er—think so.”
“Try, sir.”
Dick struck the chord of the key in which the piece was set, and the young officer blew a note of a most uncertain sound.
“Fully a quarter of a tone out, sir,” said Dick, thoroughly in earnest now over his task. “Shall I alter the slide, sir?”
“If you please.”
Dick altered the slide again and again till his pupil blew the note in perfect accord, and then they began,with the air played slowly out of time—a most feeble performance—right to the end of the strain, when the lieutenant lowered his flute, and looked at his master with a rather pitiful, but comically perplexed, expression.
“Horribly bad, isn’t it?” he said.
“Well, it might be a good deal better, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Will you be good enough to run through it?”
“No, sir; I think it would be better not. I want to encourage you—not discourage; of course, I could play it more perfectly, but then I have practised for years.”
“Yes; I suppose so.”
“But I can make you play that twice as well in a week.”
“Do you think so?” cried the lieutenant, eagerly.
“I’m sure of it, sir. Now, again, please. I’ll play each note on the piano, and I want you to blow that note firmly and with a full breath. Never mind about time, blow each note as if it were a minim, giving a breath to each.”
It was a complete change of position, the officer diligently obeying his subordinate, and working hard, if with no brilliant effect, till quite a couple of hours had passed, when he laid down his flute.
“I shall never do it.”
Dick smiled.
“You shall do it, sir,” he cried. “I’ll make you.”
“You will, Smithson? Ah! if you only can! When will you come again? I want to play it so very badly.”
“To-morrow, sir,” said Dick; and he went back toward his quarters, wondering why the lieutenant wanted to play those two old-fashioned airs.
“Surely he does not want to serenade someone.”
Dick laughed quite cheerily as he thought of the lieutenant’s handsome face, and the idea tickled him for the moment; but the next moment he sighed and felt angry with himself for his mirthful display, and forgot the lieutenant’s lessons till the next day.
Chapter Nineteen.The Night of the Serenade.Those lessons given to the lieutenant were the plus to the minus of Dick Smithson’s existence, for the young officer grew daily more friendly and confidential. He chatted about his brother-officers and the dinner parties to which he was invited, rapidly forgetting the gap between them in their military status so long as they were alone, and insisted upon paying liberally for each lesson as it was given.This Dick felt at first disposed to resent, but the lieutenant looked at him with so much surprise that he ended by taking his professional fee, and no more was ever said upon that point.One day there was a scented note upon the table; another day, in a bashful, girlish way, which accorded strangely with the young officer’s great, manly aspect, there was a hint let fall; and before long Dick smiled to himself as he felt certain that he had been right in his guess as to the purpose for which the lessons were being taken.Then came a morning when Dick walked across the barrack yard, thinking of how thoroughly he had obliterated himself from the memory of all who knew him, and the past from his own. But, as he approached the lieutenant’s quarters, he drove these thoughts away and ascended the stairs, to stop on the landing, for he could hear a voice talking loudly.“Company!” thought Dick, and he was about to turn back, but the voice rose higher, and he became aware of the fact that there was what an Irishman would call “a one-sided quarrel” going on. As he came close to the door this became more evident, for he could hear the lieutenant, striding about the room, storming angrily.“Joe Todd seems to have fetched himself hot water this morning,” said Dick to himself, for Lacey was calling his servant by every name suggestive of stupidity that he could think of, but all in the most calmly, dignified manner.“I beg your pardon, Smithson,” he said, as the man left the room. “I ought not to go on like that, but the fellow really is beyond bearing. I can’t trust him to do a single thing. He either forgets or does it wrong. He burns my wet boots; he folds my clothes so that they are always in creases; he leaves the stopper out of my scent; upsets the scented bear’s grease over my dress-clothes; and—and—Oh, I can’t think of half the mischief he has done! Oh, dear me! there never was a man worried as I am.—Now, about this duet, Smithson. Do you think we can manage?—the fact is, I want it for a serenade on Friday night.”“If you will only play it as well, sir, as you did at the last lesson, it will be all right,” said Dick, smiling to himself.“Think so? I’m afraid I must seem very stupid to you, Smithson—such a musician as you are. Really, you are a mystery to me.”Dick made no reply.“There, I beg your pardon, Smithson; it’s just as if I were trying to pump you about your past, and I assure you I did not mean to. It would be so ungentlemanly.”“Lieutenant Lacey is always gentlemanly to me,” said Dick, quietly.“Well, so are you to me, Smithson. Really, I begin to look upon you as quite a friend.”“It is very kind of you, sir.”“Well, it’s your way, Smithson. Never had lessons in music before without the fellow I took them of trying to make all the money he could out of me, bothering me to buy pieces of music, or instruments, or something. Well, let’s begin. But one moment, Smithson; you really are keeping this a profound secret—I mean about the serenade?”“I wish you would have a better opinion of me, sir,” said Dick.“I couldn’t—I couldn’t, really, Smithson,” cried the lieutenant; “but the fact is, I am so nervous about it. If it were known in the regiment, I should never hear the last of it.”“It will not be known through me, sir,” said Dick, quietly, as he arranged a couple of pieces of music on the stands.“Of course, it will not, Smithson,” cried the lieutenant, rather warmly. “You see, I’m afraid I’m rather weak, and the fellows like to chaff me. I don’t mind much; but I can’t help wishing Nature had made me less good-looking and given me some more brains.”Dick glanced at the fine, handsome fellow, and the lieutenant caught his eye.“Ah! now you’re going to laugh at me because I talked about being good-looking.”“Why should I?” said Dick, honestly. “You are the best-looking fellow—I beg pardon, sir, the best-looking officer—in the regiment.”“I am,” said the lieutenant, frankly, “and the biggest and strongest, as I’ve often proved; but what’s the good of that, Smithson, when you’re the greatest duffer? The colonel and the major both like me.”“And there isn’t a man in the regiment who wouldn’t do anything for you, sir.”“I suppose not, Smithson; but, as I was going to say, if the colonel and the major didn’t like me, I should always be in hot water, for I’m horribly stupid over the movements.—Ready?”“Quite, sir.”“Then let’s begin. There! I’ve forgotten it all, and I get so nervous my fingers grow quite damp. Now, then, to begin.”Dick beat a bar, raised his flute, and blew a note.“I beg your pardon,” said the lieutenant; “I was not quite ready. Again, please.”A fresh start was made, and in his nervousness the officer was too soon.Then a couple more starts were made, and the lieutenant laid down his flute.“It’s no good!” he cried, pitifully. “I always seem to make a fool of myself in everything I attempt.”“You only want confidence, sir,” said Dick. “Try again.”The flute was taken up, and, after a good many stumbles, the duet was run through very badly.“I think you had better play the first part, and I’ll take the second, Smithson.”“But you have studied the first part, sir, and you don’t know anything about the second.”“No,” said the lieutenant, plaintively; “but if the second broke down, it wouldn’t be of so much consequence. Look here, Smithson, you are so strong at all this sort of thing; couldn’t you give me a lift with a note or two?—I shall only break down.”“You will not break down, sir,” cried Smithson. “You said Friday night, didn’t you?”“Yes, Friday; but that’s an unlucky day, isn’t it?”“Old women say so, sir; and I’ve been as unfortunate on other days. You shall do it somehow. I’ll make you.”“Thank you, Smithson. But I’m afraid she will not think much of it.”“Why not, sir? The duet is sweetly pretty, and music sounds very soft and attractive in the silence of the night.”“To be sure—so it does!”“And if the lady cares for you, she is certain to be pleased.”“Yes, Smithson; but I don’t know that she does. Now let’s rest for a few minutes. It’s so awkward for that fellow to have upset me just before I had my music lesson. I wish I knew of a good man; I’d give anything for him.”The Friday night came, and at a time appointed Dick crossed the barrack yard, to find it soft, delicious, and summer-like, starry but dark, and with a feeling in the air which accorded well with the mission they were on.On reaching the lieutenant’s room, he found him impatiently walking up and down, smoking a cigarette—the ends of half a dozen more lying on the fire-grate ornament.“Come—come, Smithson! you are late,” cried the young officer impatiently. “It will be so vexatious to find nobody stirring. People do go to sleep when they are in bed.”“Generally, sir. But you said half-past ten, to be the time.”“Yes; and for you to be here by ten.”“Exactly, sir; but I thought I would get here half an hour sooner, in case you liked to try through the piece before we started.”“Eh? What time is it, then?”“Just about to chime half-past nine, sir.”Dick had hardly uttered the words before the barrack clock chimed twice.“Surely that’s not half-past ten,” cried the lieutenant excitedly, as he snatched out his watch. “Dear me, no! I’m an hour out in my calculations. Yes; let’s try over the piece.”The flutes were produced, and the duet was whispered through, as it were; and at the end Dick applauded softly.“Yes, that’s very kind of you,” said Lacey; “but I don’t feel satisfied. By the way, Smithson, you must not go like that. Your red jacket will be so conspicuous.”“What can I do, sir?”“Would you mind wearing one of my light overcoats, Smithson? It will be rather large for you, but so effectual in hiding your military character.”“I shall not mind it,” said Dick, though he could not help wincing a little at the idea; and soon after, with his scarlet jacket hidden by the lieutenant’s long, loose garment, which also well concealed the musical instruments, they walked together through the gates.Fifty yards farther on, Dick felt his shoulder suddenly seized, and he was thrust through a swing-door into the gas-lit glare of a public-house bar.
Those lessons given to the lieutenant were the plus to the minus of Dick Smithson’s existence, for the young officer grew daily more friendly and confidential. He chatted about his brother-officers and the dinner parties to which he was invited, rapidly forgetting the gap between them in their military status so long as they were alone, and insisted upon paying liberally for each lesson as it was given.
This Dick felt at first disposed to resent, but the lieutenant looked at him with so much surprise that he ended by taking his professional fee, and no more was ever said upon that point.
One day there was a scented note upon the table; another day, in a bashful, girlish way, which accorded strangely with the young officer’s great, manly aspect, there was a hint let fall; and before long Dick smiled to himself as he felt certain that he had been right in his guess as to the purpose for which the lessons were being taken.
Then came a morning when Dick walked across the barrack yard, thinking of how thoroughly he had obliterated himself from the memory of all who knew him, and the past from his own. But, as he approached the lieutenant’s quarters, he drove these thoughts away and ascended the stairs, to stop on the landing, for he could hear a voice talking loudly.
“Company!” thought Dick, and he was about to turn back, but the voice rose higher, and he became aware of the fact that there was what an Irishman would call “a one-sided quarrel” going on. As he came close to the door this became more evident, for he could hear the lieutenant, striding about the room, storming angrily.
“Joe Todd seems to have fetched himself hot water this morning,” said Dick to himself, for Lacey was calling his servant by every name suggestive of stupidity that he could think of, but all in the most calmly, dignified manner.
“I beg your pardon, Smithson,” he said, as the man left the room. “I ought not to go on like that, but the fellow really is beyond bearing. I can’t trust him to do a single thing. He either forgets or does it wrong. He burns my wet boots; he folds my clothes so that they are always in creases; he leaves the stopper out of my scent; upsets the scented bear’s grease over my dress-clothes; and—and—Oh, I can’t think of half the mischief he has done! Oh, dear me! there never was a man worried as I am.—Now, about this duet, Smithson. Do you think we can manage?—the fact is, I want it for a serenade on Friday night.”
“If you will only play it as well, sir, as you did at the last lesson, it will be all right,” said Dick, smiling to himself.
“Think so? I’m afraid I must seem very stupid to you, Smithson—such a musician as you are. Really, you are a mystery to me.”
Dick made no reply.
“There, I beg your pardon, Smithson; it’s just as if I were trying to pump you about your past, and I assure you I did not mean to. It would be so ungentlemanly.”
“Lieutenant Lacey is always gentlemanly to me,” said Dick, quietly.
“Well, so are you to me, Smithson. Really, I begin to look upon you as quite a friend.”
“It is very kind of you, sir.”
“Well, it’s your way, Smithson. Never had lessons in music before without the fellow I took them of trying to make all the money he could out of me, bothering me to buy pieces of music, or instruments, or something. Well, let’s begin. But one moment, Smithson; you really are keeping this a profound secret—I mean about the serenade?”
“I wish you would have a better opinion of me, sir,” said Dick.
“I couldn’t—I couldn’t, really, Smithson,” cried the lieutenant; “but the fact is, I am so nervous about it. If it were known in the regiment, I should never hear the last of it.”
“It will not be known through me, sir,” said Dick, quietly, as he arranged a couple of pieces of music on the stands.
“Of course, it will not, Smithson,” cried the lieutenant, rather warmly. “You see, I’m afraid I’m rather weak, and the fellows like to chaff me. I don’t mind much; but I can’t help wishing Nature had made me less good-looking and given me some more brains.”
Dick glanced at the fine, handsome fellow, and the lieutenant caught his eye.
“Ah! now you’re going to laugh at me because I talked about being good-looking.”
“Why should I?” said Dick, honestly. “You are the best-looking fellow—I beg pardon, sir, the best-looking officer—in the regiment.”
“I am,” said the lieutenant, frankly, “and the biggest and strongest, as I’ve often proved; but what’s the good of that, Smithson, when you’re the greatest duffer? The colonel and the major both like me.”
“And there isn’t a man in the regiment who wouldn’t do anything for you, sir.”
“I suppose not, Smithson; but, as I was going to say, if the colonel and the major didn’t like me, I should always be in hot water, for I’m horribly stupid over the movements.—Ready?”
“Quite, sir.”
“Then let’s begin. There! I’ve forgotten it all, and I get so nervous my fingers grow quite damp. Now, then, to begin.”
Dick beat a bar, raised his flute, and blew a note.
“I beg your pardon,” said the lieutenant; “I was not quite ready. Again, please.”
A fresh start was made, and in his nervousness the officer was too soon.
Then a couple more starts were made, and the lieutenant laid down his flute.
“It’s no good!” he cried, pitifully. “I always seem to make a fool of myself in everything I attempt.”
“You only want confidence, sir,” said Dick. “Try again.”
The flute was taken up, and, after a good many stumbles, the duet was run through very badly.
“I think you had better play the first part, and I’ll take the second, Smithson.”
“But you have studied the first part, sir, and you don’t know anything about the second.”
“No,” said the lieutenant, plaintively; “but if the second broke down, it wouldn’t be of so much consequence. Look here, Smithson, you are so strong at all this sort of thing; couldn’t you give me a lift with a note or two?—I shall only break down.”
“You will not break down, sir,” cried Smithson. “You said Friday night, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Friday; but that’s an unlucky day, isn’t it?”
“Old women say so, sir; and I’ve been as unfortunate on other days. You shall do it somehow. I’ll make you.”
“Thank you, Smithson. But I’m afraid she will not think much of it.”
“Why not, sir? The duet is sweetly pretty, and music sounds very soft and attractive in the silence of the night.”
“To be sure—so it does!”
“And if the lady cares for you, she is certain to be pleased.”
“Yes, Smithson; but I don’t know that she does. Now let’s rest for a few minutes. It’s so awkward for that fellow to have upset me just before I had my music lesson. I wish I knew of a good man; I’d give anything for him.”
The Friday night came, and at a time appointed Dick crossed the barrack yard, to find it soft, delicious, and summer-like, starry but dark, and with a feeling in the air which accorded well with the mission they were on.
On reaching the lieutenant’s room, he found him impatiently walking up and down, smoking a cigarette—the ends of half a dozen more lying on the fire-grate ornament.
“Come—come, Smithson! you are late,” cried the young officer impatiently. “It will be so vexatious to find nobody stirring. People do go to sleep when they are in bed.”
“Generally, sir. But you said half-past ten, to be the time.”
“Yes; and for you to be here by ten.”
“Exactly, sir; but I thought I would get here half an hour sooner, in case you liked to try through the piece before we started.”
“Eh? What time is it, then?”
“Just about to chime half-past nine, sir.”
Dick had hardly uttered the words before the barrack clock chimed twice.
“Surely that’s not half-past ten,” cried the lieutenant excitedly, as he snatched out his watch. “Dear me, no! I’m an hour out in my calculations. Yes; let’s try over the piece.”
The flutes were produced, and the duet was whispered through, as it were; and at the end Dick applauded softly.
“Yes, that’s very kind of you,” said Lacey; “but I don’t feel satisfied. By the way, Smithson, you must not go like that. Your red jacket will be so conspicuous.”
“What can I do, sir?”
“Would you mind wearing one of my light overcoats, Smithson? It will be rather large for you, but so effectual in hiding your military character.”
“I shall not mind it,” said Dick, though he could not help wincing a little at the idea; and soon after, with his scarlet jacket hidden by the lieutenant’s long, loose garment, which also well concealed the musical instruments, they walked together through the gates.
Fifty yards farther on, Dick felt his shoulder suddenly seized, and he was thrust through a swing-door into the gas-lit glare of a public-house bar.
Chapter Twenty.Beneath the Lady’s Lattice-Pane.Dick Smithson turned round in astonishment to gaze in the face of his companion, whose act had at once taken the attention of a couple of soldiers, out beyond their time, and of some men with whom they were drinking.“Call for something, Smithson,” whispered the lieutenant, glancing back anxiously at the door.“But I don’t want anything, sir,” said Dick, angrily.“Never mind; treat me, then.”Dick stared, wondering whether his companion was going out of his mind.“Don’t stop,” whispered the lieutenant. “Order some beer.”With the reason beginning to dawn upon him now, Dick ordered and paid for two pots of ale, which he handed to the two half-tipsy soldiers, who began proposing their health just as steps and voices were heard passing.The next minute they were outside.“A false alarm, Smithson,” said the lieutenant, with a forced laugh, as he dabbed his forehead. “I caught a glimpse of them lower down; I thought it was the major and the doctor. How absurd it all seemed. You don’t think those two fellows will talk about it?”“Well, sir, I can’t help thinking they will,” replied Dick.“That will be awkward,” said the lieutenant in dismay. “They ought to have been in barracks; and they may excuse themselves by saying that I was treating them at a public-house.”“Yes, sir, it will be awkward,” said Dick, who felt annoyed and yet amused.“It will look so ungentlemanly. You see, they were both men belonging to my company. Whatever shall I do?”“Nothing, I should say, sir. I don’t see what you can do.”“No,” said the lieutenant, shaking his head sadly. “What a pity it is that things will go so crookedly!” And he walked on in silence down into the main street, looking sharply from side to side.“Anyone would think that we were going to commit a burglary,” muttered Dick. As they went on for some time, “Is it here, sir?” he ventured to say at last.“Only about five hundred yards more, Smithson; but, really, thatcontretempshas so upset me that I think you had better play a solo. I shall never get through a duet.”“But that would be of no use, sir,” cried Dick. “It would be only my music then. It ought to be your serenade.”“Yes, Smithson—it ought,” sighed the lieutenant in a husky whisper; “but, if I broke down, it would be absurd.”“But you wouldn’t break down, sir. See how correctly you played it this evening.”“Yes, I did—didn’t I? You think I could do it, don’t you?”“I’m sure you could, sir, if you would only forget about being nervous.”“I must try,” said the lieutenant. “We are very near now.”They were now where the lamps had grown fewer, and consequently the road between was much darker; but there was light enough for Dick to see that they were passing a series of detached houses, built upon the same plan, standing back some forty yards from the road, and approached by semicircular carriage drives from gate to gate. Trees were plentiful in the grounds, and overhung and darkened the footpath; so that, as they passed the second gateway, the lieutenant gave a violent start, for from close up to the wall there came a gruff voice—“Night, gentlemen!”“Eh! You quite startled me,” said the lieutenant. “I didn’t see you.”“No, sir. Don’t want to be seen,” replied the man. “Get some queer customers down here sometimes, and obliged to keep a sharp look-out.”“Yes; quite right,” said the lieutenant, feebly; and he walked straight on for about a hundred yards before speaking.“It’s all over, Smithson!” he whispered at last.“All over, sir?”“Yes; that’s the house, and there’s the policeman on the watch.”“That’s awkward,” said Dick; “but he’ll soon go, sir.”“Soon go, man! Who’s to go and play a duet with a policeman keeping his eye upon you all the time? I couldn’t do it, Smithson.”“Let’s walk on a little farther, sir, and then turn back.”“No; we must give it up for to-night. How terribly strange things are turning up! And, besides, it’s getting so late.”They walked on a quarter of a mile and then turned back, hardly a word being said, the lieutenant filling up the time by uttering the peculiar sound expressed by the wordtutrepeated rapidly.“Shall I go on first, sir, and see if the policeman is there?” said Dick at last.“No, no; it would look so suspicious. He might take us for bad characters. We must walk by together.”“Very well, sir,” replied Dick; and they strolled slowly along the now deserted road, with the lights in the upper windows of the houses gradually dying out one by one, as if to prove that the lieutenant’s words about being late were correct.To their great satisfaction, though, the lights were still plainly to be seen in the last house but one of those standing back, and as they passed the swing gates no policeman was visible.But they walked on back towards the town for another hundred yards, and then stopped.“Coast quite clear, sir,” said Dick.“Think so, Smithson? Is it safe?”“The constable has evidently gone on his round.”“But he said something about watching.”“Yes, sir; but he would not stop in one place. I’d venture, if I were you.”“Then we will, Smithson. Come along back at once, and let’s get it over. The plan of attack is to go quickly through the gate, pass on to the grass, and then right up to the house—on the lawn, of course. Then one, two, three, four, and start at once.”“Yes, sir; I understand. I’ll count four in a whisper, and away we go.”“There, then, not a word till I tap your arm with my flute, which you can give me as soon as we have got on to the lawn.”The entrance was reached again, but there was no policeman in the dark nook, and, raising the latch, the lieutenant swung open the gate, and they passed through, the latch falling back into its place with a faint click which sounded terribly loud, and made them pause for a moment or two.“Come along,” whispered the lieutenant; “on to the grass.”“What’s your little game?”It was a gruff whisper from out of a clump of laurustinus, and, as the stalwart figure of the policeman moved up in the darkness, the lieutenant turned to flee, but stopped short on Dick grasping his arm.“There’s nothing wrong, constable!” said Dick, quickly.“No; and I don’t mean for there to be! Just consider yourselves ketched! No gammon, or I whistles, and there’ll be dozens of our chaps here in no time; and, if they comes and finds you’re nasty, there won’t be no mercy—and so I tell yer!”“Don’t be absurd,” said Dick, thinking it better to out with the truth; “we’ve only come to play a tune or two in front of the house.”“Yes, yes!” said the lieutenant, feebly.“Yes, yes!” cried the constable, mockingly. “I know—one on yer’s going to play a toon on the centre-bit while t’other sings the pop’lar and original air o’ ‘Gentle Jemmy in the ’ouse.’ Now, then, no gammon! Come on!”“Hadn’t we better walk to the station with him, and explain to his officer?” said the lieutenant, mildly.“No!” cried Dick, angrily; “we’ll make him understand here! Don’t be absurd, constable; this is a gentleman—”“From London. I know!”“Nonsense! he lives in Ratcham. It is only meant for a pleasant little surprise.”“To find the plate gone, eh!”“I tell you we were going to play a tune or two!”“Then where’s your organ?”“Absurd!”“Fiddles, then?”“Fiddles—nonsense! Here are our instruments.”Dick unbuttoned the loose overcoat and brought out the two flutes.As Dick unfastened the coat there was a faint, gleam of light from the constable’s belt, which shone on Dick’s chest.“From the barracks, eh?” said the constable, surlily. “Humph! Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to say. You may be London burglars, and putting a clever flam on me.”“Do people go burgling with flutes?” said Dick, angrily. “Now, look here, go back to the gate, and mind we are not interrupted! This gentleman is going to slip two half-crowns in your hand.”“Well, if it’s all right, and only a bit of music, I don’t want to be disagreeable, gentlemen. Sarah-naying, don’t you call it? Only look out: I have heered tell o’ blunderbusses and revolvers about here! Thankye, sir; but, of course, that wasn’t ness’ry. I’ve got to go ’bout half-mile! down the road, so you’d better get it over before I come back.”The man went off, and the lieutenant stood panting.“I’d rather have faced the enemy’s shot, Smithson!” he whispered.“But it’s all right now, sir,” said Dick. “Catch hold of your flute. I’d not interfere with the tuning-slide: it’s quite correct.”“It’s impossible, Smithson; my hands are trembling terribly.”“You’ll forget it as soon as we begin, sir. Come along!”Dick led the way in and out among the clumps of shrubs that dotted the soft lawn till the house was reached, and the lieutenant yielded to the stronger will, following with his flute in his hand.“Which is her window, sir?” whispered Dick.“That one,” replied the lieutenant, feebly, as they stood there in the darkness, with the stars glimmering overhead and the sweet fragrance of the dewy flowers rising all around.“Then one—two—three—four” whispered Dick. “Off!”“He regularly makes me,” muttered the lieutenant, raising the flute to his lips, and the sweet, soft sounds floated out upon the night breeze, the pupil playing far better than Dick had anticipated, and keeping well up through the first verse, evidently encouraged by the successful issue of his lessons, and also by the fact that there came a sharp snap overhead, followed by the peculiar squeaking, grating sound of a window-sash being raised, while, dimly seen above, there was a figure in white.That second verse rang out with its message of flowers committed to the flowing river more and more sweetly than before, though it was not really the lieutenant’s fault, for Dick kept on throwing out a few clear notes—additional to his part—when some of his companion’s threatened to die away, and these grace notes came in with such delicious, florid eccentricity that a hearer would have taken them for intentional variations cleverly composed by a good musician.On the whole, then, the performance was as creditable as it was charming; and the second verse ended.“A bar’s rest, and then once more,” whispered Dick. “One—two—three—four.”Pat!scatter, and a feeble groan!Then a voice from the open window—a peculiarly clarionetty harsh voice, such as could only come from a very elderly lady’s throat—“Thank you! Very nicely played. Good-night.”The window squeaked, was then closed loudly, and whispering “Come along!” the lieutenant was in full retreat towards the gate, while Dick was choking in his endeavour to smother his laughter.“Coppers!” groaned the lieutenant; “that must have been quite a shilling’s worth of halfpence wrapped up in paper. They hit me on the top of the head.”“And burst and scattered over the grass,” whispered Dick, trying to be serious.“Yes, Smithson; and if I had had no cap the consequences might have been serious.”“Were you hurt, sir?”“More mentally than bodily, Smithson,” sighed the lieutenant.“But how could the lady make such a mistake as to think we—you were a travelling musician?”“The lady?” cried the lieutenant angrily. “How can you be so absurd, Smithson! it was her prim old aunt!”There was no more said on the way back to the barracks, much to Dick’s satisfaction, for he felt that if the lieutenant spoke he would be compelled to burst out with a roar of laughter in his face.
Dick Smithson turned round in astonishment to gaze in the face of his companion, whose act had at once taken the attention of a couple of soldiers, out beyond their time, and of some men with whom they were drinking.
“Call for something, Smithson,” whispered the lieutenant, glancing back anxiously at the door.
“But I don’t want anything, sir,” said Dick, angrily.
“Never mind; treat me, then.”
Dick stared, wondering whether his companion was going out of his mind.
“Don’t stop,” whispered the lieutenant. “Order some beer.”
With the reason beginning to dawn upon him now, Dick ordered and paid for two pots of ale, which he handed to the two half-tipsy soldiers, who began proposing their health just as steps and voices were heard passing.
The next minute they were outside.
“A false alarm, Smithson,” said the lieutenant, with a forced laugh, as he dabbed his forehead. “I caught a glimpse of them lower down; I thought it was the major and the doctor. How absurd it all seemed. You don’t think those two fellows will talk about it?”
“Well, sir, I can’t help thinking they will,” replied Dick.
“That will be awkward,” said the lieutenant in dismay. “They ought to have been in barracks; and they may excuse themselves by saying that I was treating them at a public-house.”
“Yes, sir, it will be awkward,” said Dick, who felt annoyed and yet amused.
“It will look so ungentlemanly. You see, they were both men belonging to my company. Whatever shall I do?”
“Nothing, I should say, sir. I don’t see what you can do.”
“No,” said the lieutenant, shaking his head sadly. “What a pity it is that things will go so crookedly!” And he walked on in silence down into the main street, looking sharply from side to side.
“Anyone would think that we were going to commit a burglary,” muttered Dick. As they went on for some time, “Is it here, sir?” he ventured to say at last.
“Only about five hundred yards more, Smithson; but, really, thatcontretempshas so upset me that I think you had better play a solo. I shall never get through a duet.”
“But that would be of no use, sir,” cried Dick. “It would be only my music then. It ought to be your serenade.”
“Yes, Smithson—it ought,” sighed the lieutenant in a husky whisper; “but, if I broke down, it would be absurd.”
“But you wouldn’t break down, sir. See how correctly you played it this evening.”
“Yes, I did—didn’t I? You think I could do it, don’t you?”
“I’m sure you could, sir, if you would only forget about being nervous.”
“I must try,” said the lieutenant. “We are very near now.”
They were now where the lamps had grown fewer, and consequently the road between was much darker; but there was light enough for Dick to see that they were passing a series of detached houses, built upon the same plan, standing back some forty yards from the road, and approached by semicircular carriage drives from gate to gate. Trees were plentiful in the grounds, and overhung and darkened the footpath; so that, as they passed the second gateway, the lieutenant gave a violent start, for from close up to the wall there came a gruff voice—
“Night, gentlemen!”
“Eh! You quite startled me,” said the lieutenant. “I didn’t see you.”
“No, sir. Don’t want to be seen,” replied the man. “Get some queer customers down here sometimes, and obliged to keep a sharp look-out.”
“Yes; quite right,” said the lieutenant, feebly; and he walked straight on for about a hundred yards before speaking.
“It’s all over, Smithson!” he whispered at last.
“All over, sir?”
“Yes; that’s the house, and there’s the policeman on the watch.”
“That’s awkward,” said Dick; “but he’ll soon go, sir.”
“Soon go, man! Who’s to go and play a duet with a policeman keeping his eye upon you all the time? I couldn’t do it, Smithson.”
“Let’s walk on a little farther, sir, and then turn back.”
“No; we must give it up for to-night. How terribly strange things are turning up! And, besides, it’s getting so late.”
They walked on a quarter of a mile and then turned back, hardly a word being said, the lieutenant filling up the time by uttering the peculiar sound expressed by the wordtutrepeated rapidly.
“Shall I go on first, sir, and see if the policeman is there?” said Dick at last.
“No, no; it would look so suspicious. He might take us for bad characters. We must walk by together.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Dick; and they strolled slowly along the now deserted road, with the lights in the upper windows of the houses gradually dying out one by one, as if to prove that the lieutenant’s words about being late were correct.
To their great satisfaction, though, the lights were still plainly to be seen in the last house but one of those standing back, and as they passed the swing gates no policeman was visible.
But they walked on back towards the town for another hundred yards, and then stopped.
“Coast quite clear, sir,” said Dick.
“Think so, Smithson? Is it safe?”
“The constable has evidently gone on his round.”
“But he said something about watching.”
“Yes, sir; but he would not stop in one place. I’d venture, if I were you.”
“Then we will, Smithson. Come along back at once, and let’s get it over. The plan of attack is to go quickly through the gate, pass on to the grass, and then right up to the house—on the lawn, of course. Then one, two, three, four, and start at once.”
“Yes, sir; I understand. I’ll count four in a whisper, and away we go.”
“There, then, not a word till I tap your arm with my flute, which you can give me as soon as we have got on to the lawn.”
The entrance was reached again, but there was no policeman in the dark nook, and, raising the latch, the lieutenant swung open the gate, and they passed through, the latch falling back into its place with a faint click which sounded terribly loud, and made them pause for a moment or two.
“Come along,” whispered the lieutenant; “on to the grass.”
“What’s your little game?”
It was a gruff whisper from out of a clump of laurustinus, and, as the stalwart figure of the policeman moved up in the darkness, the lieutenant turned to flee, but stopped short on Dick grasping his arm.
“There’s nothing wrong, constable!” said Dick, quickly.
“No; and I don’t mean for there to be! Just consider yourselves ketched! No gammon, or I whistles, and there’ll be dozens of our chaps here in no time; and, if they comes and finds you’re nasty, there won’t be no mercy—and so I tell yer!”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Dick, thinking it better to out with the truth; “we’ve only come to play a tune or two in front of the house.”
“Yes, yes!” said the lieutenant, feebly.
“Yes, yes!” cried the constable, mockingly. “I know—one on yer’s going to play a toon on the centre-bit while t’other sings the pop’lar and original air o’ ‘Gentle Jemmy in the ’ouse.’ Now, then, no gammon! Come on!”
“Hadn’t we better walk to the station with him, and explain to his officer?” said the lieutenant, mildly.
“No!” cried Dick, angrily; “we’ll make him understand here! Don’t be absurd, constable; this is a gentleman—”
“From London. I know!”
“Nonsense! he lives in Ratcham. It is only meant for a pleasant little surprise.”
“To find the plate gone, eh!”
“I tell you we were going to play a tune or two!”
“Then where’s your organ?”
“Absurd!”
“Fiddles, then?”
“Fiddles—nonsense! Here are our instruments.”
Dick unbuttoned the loose overcoat and brought out the two flutes.
As Dick unfastened the coat there was a faint, gleam of light from the constable’s belt, which shone on Dick’s chest.
“From the barracks, eh?” said the constable, surlily. “Humph! Well, I’m sure I don’t know what to say. You may be London burglars, and putting a clever flam on me.”
“Do people go burgling with flutes?” said Dick, angrily. “Now, look here, go back to the gate, and mind we are not interrupted! This gentleman is going to slip two half-crowns in your hand.”
“Well, if it’s all right, and only a bit of music, I don’t want to be disagreeable, gentlemen. Sarah-naying, don’t you call it? Only look out: I have heered tell o’ blunderbusses and revolvers about here! Thankye, sir; but, of course, that wasn’t ness’ry. I’ve got to go ’bout half-mile! down the road, so you’d better get it over before I come back.”
The man went off, and the lieutenant stood panting.
“I’d rather have faced the enemy’s shot, Smithson!” he whispered.
“But it’s all right now, sir,” said Dick. “Catch hold of your flute. I’d not interfere with the tuning-slide: it’s quite correct.”
“It’s impossible, Smithson; my hands are trembling terribly.”
“You’ll forget it as soon as we begin, sir. Come along!”
Dick led the way in and out among the clumps of shrubs that dotted the soft lawn till the house was reached, and the lieutenant yielded to the stronger will, following with his flute in his hand.
“Which is her window, sir?” whispered Dick.
“That one,” replied the lieutenant, feebly, as they stood there in the darkness, with the stars glimmering overhead and the sweet fragrance of the dewy flowers rising all around.
“Then one—two—three—four” whispered Dick. “Off!”
“He regularly makes me,” muttered the lieutenant, raising the flute to his lips, and the sweet, soft sounds floated out upon the night breeze, the pupil playing far better than Dick had anticipated, and keeping well up through the first verse, evidently encouraged by the successful issue of his lessons, and also by the fact that there came a sharp snap overhead, followed by the peculiar squeaking, grating sound of a window-sash being raised, while, dimly seen above, there was a figure in white.
That second verse rang out with its message of flowers committed to the flowing river more and more sweetly than before, though it was not really the lieutenant’s fault, for Dick kept on throwing out a few clear notes—additional to his part—when some of his companion’s threatened to die away, and these grace notes came in with such delicious, florid eccentricity that a hearer would have taken them for intentional variations cleverly composed by a good musician.
On the whole, then, the performance was as creditable as it was charming; and the second verse ended.
“A bar’s rest, and then once more,” whispered Dick. “One—two—three—four.”
Pat!scatter, and a feeble groan!
Then a voice from the open window—a peculiarly clarionetty harsh voice, such as could only come from a very elderly lady’s throat—
“Thank you! Very nicely played. Good-night.”
The window squeaked, was then closed loudly, and whispering “Come along!” the lieutenant was in full retreat towards the gate, while Dick was choking in his endeavour to smother his laughter.
“Coppers!” groaned the lieutenant; “that must have been quite a shilling’s worth of halfpence wrapped up in paper. They hit me on the top of the head.”
“And burst and scattered over the grass,” whispered Dick, trying to be serious.
“Yes, Smithson; and if I had had no cap the consequences might have been serious.”
“Were you hurt, sir?”
“More mentally than bodily, Smithson,” sighed the lieutenant.
“But how could the lady make such a mistake as to think we—you were a travelling musician?”
“The lady?” cried the lieutenant angrily. “How can you be so absurd, Smithson! it was her prim old aunt!”
There was no more said on the way back to the barracks, much to Dick’s satisfaction, for he felt that if the lieutenant spoke he would be compelled to burst out with a roar of laughter in his face.
Chapter Twenty One.Dick Smithson’s Anti-Fat.Busy days in barracks, youth, and the high spirits consequent upon living an active, healthy life, had their effect on Dick. The past naturally grew farther off, and, unnaturally, seemed farther still; so that, before six months had passed, the young bandsman had thoroughly settled down to his music and military life, and began to find it enjoyable, in spite of the petty annoyances such as fall to the lot of all.For there was always something in the way. The band had its regular military duties, and played at the mess, where, to Wilkins’ great disgust, Dick’s flute and piccolo solos grew in favour with the officers, and often had to be repeated.Then there were fêtes in the neighbourhood, balls given, and twice over the band was required at a public dinner.The lessons given to Lieutenant Lacey were continued, and that officer certainly improved; but he did not evince the slightest desire to repeat the serenade, not even alluding to it when Dick visited his rooms.There were times, of course, when a fit of low spirits would set Dick dreaming a little about what might have been, but he soon dismissed thoughts of the past; and in all the months since he had left Mr Draycott’s no single scrap of news reached his ears, neither was it sought.“I have no past,” he would say to himself, as he forced himself energetically into every duty and every sport encouraged by the colonel.Before long it was a settled thing that he must be one of the best eleven when cricket was in the way, and when the season came round he played as good a part at football.The officers always had a friendly nod for him, and on one occasion the colonel spoke to him after a solo, praising him highly.“But, do you know, Smithson,” he said, “I am half-sorry that you are not in the ranks. Music is a delightful thing; but for a young man, like you, a bandsman in a line regiment is only a bandsman, after all. I think you might do better, though I should be sorry for you to leave the band. Think it over, my lad; I should like to see you get on.”Dick did think it over, for he was aware, by his clothes, that he had altered greatly since that afternoon when the sergeant looked at him and laughed.“I can’t be too short and slight now.”But he hesitated. There had never been any need for him to be disenchanted with regard to imaginative pictures of a soldier’s life; but, all the same, he could not help, after his months of experience, shrinking from taking to a life in the ranks, with its many monotonous drills.Still, he thought it over, and wondered how long it would be before he rose to corporal, and was then promoted to sergeant and colour-sergeant.Lastly, was there the slightest possibility for a young man like himself to gain a commission? He always came to the same conclusion. He might: but he was far more likely to fail; and he did not know that he wished to be an officer now. In fact, he shuddered at the thoughts which followed.Meanwhile the time went on, with the feeling always upon him that the colonel might ask him whether he had come to any decision. But that officer never spoke; for the simple reason that the words, uttered after dinner, when he was in a good humour, were entirely forgotten, and as if they had never been uttered.One day upon parade, and away upon the Common, when the band was drawn up on one side after playing, during a march past, there was a little scene with one of Dick’s friends—the man whose acquaintance he had first made and whose good feeling he still retained.“Here, sergeant,” shouted the colonel; and Brumpton doubled up to him, halted, and stood fast, conscious that officers and men were on the grin. “Look here, Brumpton, this really will not do. Confound you, sir! you’re making the regiment a laughing-stock.”“Very sorry, sir—try to do my duty.”“Yes, yes,” cried the colonel. “You are a capital sergeant; but look at you this morning!”Brumpton rolled his eyes about, but stood still.“I would not do that, man; you can’t see behind you. Are you aware that the back seams of your jacket are opening out?”“No, sir, but they will do it.”“Then why the dickens don’t you train and get rid of some of that superfluous fat? There, you can’t stop on parade. Go and get your jacket mended.”Poor Brumpton’s face changed as he turned to go, but before he had gone far the colonel cried:“Stop! There, go on with your duty, sir.—Poor fellow,” he muttered, “I can’t be hard upon him. But he is so disgustingly fat; eh, Lacey?”“Yes, he is fat,” said the lieutenant, thoughtfully. “Poor beggar! it would be rough upon him on service if we had to run. I mean retreat, sir!”“The 205th will never be in such a position, sir,” said the colonel stiffly. “Run, indeed! The 205th run!”“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lieutenant, whose face was now almost as red as his uniform.“Granted, Mr Lacey; but, for goodness’ sake, don’t you ever let me hear you say a word again about running.”“Not forward, sir?”“Oh, yes; that, of course.”The long morning’s evolutions were gone through, the band went to the front, and the regiment was marched back to barracks; and that same afternoon, as Dick sat alone in the reading-room, copying a band-part for Wilkins, there was a panting noise close behind him, and Brumpton’s thick, rich voice exclaimed:“Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. How are you, Smithson?”“Quite well,” said Dick, smiling in the non-commissioned officer’s face.“Don’t—don’t do that,” said Brumpton, sharply.“Don’t do what, Mr Brumpton?”“Laugh at a man.”“You don’t think I was laughing at you?” said Dick, gravely.“No, no—of course not. You wouldn’t, my lad. But, my word! how you are growing, Smithson! It’s the drilling. You have altered since you came.”“Have I?”“Wonderfully, my lad—wonderfully! Men showed up well this morning,” he continued, seating himself.“Capitally,” said Dick.“Couldn’t hear what the colonel said, could you?”“Every word.”“But you couldn’t see, could you?” said the sergeant, appealingly.“Oh, yes; two great slits, with the stuffing coming out.”Brumpton groaned.“I say, why don’t you make the tailor take all the padding away?” cried Dick.“I did beg and pray of him to, but he wouldn’t. He said it would spoil my figure, and I should look fuller and fatter. Oh, dear! I never thought, after working as I have in the regiment, that I should live to be laughed at like this!”“Oh, don’t mind that. I couldn’t help laughing, too, Mr Brumpton. It did look rather comic.”“To you, my lad—to you; but it’s death to me! I shall be turned out of the regiment on a pension. Me going out on a pension at my time of life! But it must come.”“Don’t let it,” said Dick. “You’re a young man yet.”“Yes; six-and-thirty, Smithson—that’s all.”“Well, will you let me speak plainly, Mr Brumpton?”“Of course, I will, my dear boy; I always liked you from the day when you came up to me and wanted the shilling. I said to myself then, ‘This chap’s a gentleman—’”“Oh, nonsense—nonsense,” cried Dick.“Ah! you needn’t tell me. I know. But I’m not going to pump you. If you want to keep it dark why you’ve run away from home, you’ve a right to. What were you going to say, Smithson?”Dick was growing nervous and excited, and jumped at the change in the conversation.“I was going to say that, as it is such a pity for you to grow so stout, why don’t you eat less?”“Eat! My dear boy, I almost starve myself.”“Drink less, then. If I were you, I wouldn’t take so much beer.”“But I don’t, Smithson; I don’t—I give it up ever so long ago—only ginger, and that can’t make me fat. It don’t make no difference whether I eat and drink hearty or starve myself: it all goes to fat. I really believe sometimes that the very wind agrees with me and runs to it.”“Then do as the colonel said—train, run, use the clubs.”“I have,” cried Brumpton, “for months; but I only get worse.”“Don’t sleep quite so much, then.”“Oh, dear!” groaned the sergeant; “I’ve cut myself down to five hours, and surely that oughtn’t to be too much. It’s no good, Smithson—not a bit! If I was to be shut up in a lump of coal, like a toad, I should go on getting fat till the coal split up the back, like one of my jackets.”“Well, it does seem hard,” said Dick.“No, sir; soft—horridly soft,” said the sergeant, and he rose with a sigh. “I’ve felt sometimes that if I get my discharge I shall make an end of myself.”“Nonsense.”“Oh, I shall. I’ve often thought of drowning myself, after being laughed at, but I couldn’t do that.”“I should think not.”“Fat would be against me there, Smithson; I should only float.”The idea of the plump sergeant bobbing about, half out of the water, like a cork-float, excited Dick’s laughing muscles; but he saw how genuine was the distress of the poor fellow standing before him, and he forbore, knowing as he did that a good warm heart beat beneath that coating of fat and that Brumpton was a clever officer and devoted to his work.“I wish I could help you, sergeant,” said Dick, at last.“So do I, my lad; but you can’t.”“Have you tried the doctor?”“Yes—yes,” said Brumpton, dolefully.“What did he advise?”“Nothing! Laughed at me.”Dick sat, tapping the table with his penholder.“I know how it will be,” continued the sergeant. “I shall be pitched out of the regiment, and then I shall begin to get thin from misery and despair.”“Going?” said Dick.“Yes; I’ll just walk round to the canteen and get in the scales again. I try ’em every day, hoping to find ’em moving the wrong way, but I never can. I was seventeen stone thirteen yesterday; next week I shall be eighteen stone, and they can’t keep a man like that in the army.”“Stop! Look here!” cried Dick, so earnestly that the sergeant plumped down again into his seat, gazing wildly into the young man’s face, ready to grasp at any straw to save himself from being drowned in his misery.“Yes, yes,” he panted; and he began to wipe his big, smooth face. “Got an idea?”“I think I could cure you, Mr Brumpton.”“Could you? How? I’ll take anything. I don’t mind how nasty.”“I’ve got an idea that I think will work, and, if it doesn’t take down your fat, it would keep you from having to leave the regiment.”The sergeant made a grab at Dick’s hand.“What is it? What is it?” he panted.“Learn the bombardon!”The sergeant loosened his grasp, and sank back again.“You’re laughing at me,” he said, reproachfully; “and it comes hard from you, Dick Smithson.”“I’m not laughing at you, sergeant,” cried Dick, earnestly. “Look here! it’s a thing I have often noticed; but I never thought of applying it to you. Who are the two thinnest men in the band?”“Those two young chaps who play the trombones.”“Exactly, and nearly all the fellows are thin. You learn to play the bombardon, and I’ll be bound to say that it will pull you down.”“Think so?” said the sergeant, with a sigh.“I feel sure!”“But how can I?”“Oh, you could manage that. Tell Mr Wilkins you’ve taken a fancy to learn the instrument. I’ll help you.”The sergeant looked doubtful.“Then, if it doesn’t get your fat down, you could come in the band. You’d look splendid, marching along with that great brass instrument!”“Not chaffing me, are you?” said the sergeant, suspiciously.“Chaffing? No, man. There, I’ll speak out frankly to show you how sincere I am. It does look absurd to see you puffing and panting along at the double with your company. Don’t be offended.”“No, my lad—no. It does look very stupid. Nobody knows it better than I do.”“But, marching with the band, your size would not be noticed, especially as you would be carrying that great brass bass instrument with its huge bell-mouth.”“Well, do you know, I’m beginning to like that idea, Smithson. But I’m not very clever over music. Big drum seems more in my way.”“Oh, no. You could soon get on with a bass instrument. Have you ever learnt anything?”“Tin whistle, when I was a boy.”“Oh, that would not help you much. You say you’ll try, and I’ll help you.”“Try,” cried the sergeant. “I’d try bugling;” and he soon after left the room with the understanding that, Mr Wilkins being willing, he was to begin his practice the very next day.
Busy days in barracks, youth, and the high spirits consequent upon living an active, healthy life, had their effect on Dick. The past naturally grew farther off, and, unnaturally, seemed farther still; so that, before six months had passed, the young bandsman had thoroughly settled down to his music and military life, and began to find it enjoyable, in spite of the petty annoyances such as fall to the lot of all.
For there was always something in the way. The band had its regular military duties, and played at the mess, where, to Wilkins’ great disgust, Dick’s flute and piccolo solos grew in favour with the officers, and often had to be repeated.
Then there were fêtes in the neighbourhood, balls given, and twice over the band was required at a public dinner.
The lessons given to Lieutenant Lacey were continued, and that officer certainly improved; but he did not evince the slightest desire to repeat the serenade, not even alluding to it when Dick visited his rooms.
There were times, of course, when a fit of low spirits would set Dick dreaming a little about what might have been, but he soon dismissed thoughts of the past; and in all the months since he had left Mr Draycott’s no single scrap of news reached his ears, neither was it sought.
“I have no past,” he would say to himself, as he forced himself energetically into every duty and every sport encouraged by the colonel.
Before long it was a settled thing that he must be one of the best eleven when cricket was in the way, and when the season came round he played as good a part at football.
The officers always had a friendly nod for him, and on one occasion the colonel spoke to him after a solo, praising him highly.
“But, do you know, Smithson,” he said, “I am half-sorry that you are not in the ranks. Music is a delightful thing; but for a young man, like you, a bandsman in a line regiment is only a bandsman, after all. I think you might do better, though I should be sorry for you to leave the band. Think it over, my lad; I should like to see you get on.”
Dick did think it over, for he was aware, by his clothes, that he had altered greatly since that afternoon when the sergeant looked at him and laughed.
“I can’t be too short and slight now.”
But he hesitated. There had never been any need for him to be disenchanted with regard to imaginative pictures of a soldier’s life; but, all the same, he could not help, after his months of experience, shrinking from taking to a life in the ranks, with its many monotonous drills.
Still, he thought it over, and wondered how long it would be before he rose to corporal, and was then promoted to sergeant and colour-sergeant.
Lastly, was there the slightest possibility for a young man like himself to gain a commission? He always came to the same conclusion. He might: but he was far more likely to fail; and he did not know that he wished to be an officer now. In fact, he shuddered at the thoughts which followed.
Meanwhile the time went on, with the feeling always upon him that the colonel might ask him whether he had come to any decision. But that officer never spoke; for the simple reason that the words, uttered after dinner, when he was in a good humour, were entirely forgotten, and as if they had never been uttered.
One day upon parade, and away upon the Common, when the band was drawn up on one side after playing, during a march past, there was a little scene with one of Dick’s friends—the man whose acquaintance he had first made and whose good feeling he still retained.
“Here, sergeant,” shouted the colonel; and Brumpton doubled up to him, halted, and stood fast, conscious that officers and men were on the grin. “Look here, Brumpton, this really will not do. Confound you, sir! you’re making the regiment a laughing-stock.”
“Very sorry, sir—try to do my duty.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the colonel. “You are a capital sergeant; but look at you this morning!”
Brumpton rolled his eyes about, but stood still.
“I would not do that, man; you can’t see behind you. Are you aware that the back seams of your jacket are opening out?”
“No, sir, but they will do it.”
“Then why the dickens don’t you train and get rid of some of that superfluous fat? There, you can’t stop on parade. Go and get your jacket mended.”
Poor Brumpton’s face changed as he turned to go, but before he had gone far the colonel cried:
“Stop! There, go on with your duty, sir.—Poor fellow,” he muttered, “I can’t be hard upon him. But he is so disgustingly fat; eh, Lacey?”
“Yes, he is fat,” said the lieutenant, thoughtfully. “Poor beggar! it would be rough upon him on service if we had to run. I mean retreat, sir!”
“The 205th will never be in such a position, sir,” said the colonel stiffly. “Run, indeed! The 205th run!”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lieutenant, whose face was now almost as red as his uniform.
“Granted, Mr Lacey; but, for goodness’ sake, don’t you ever let me hear you say a word again about running.”
“Not forward, sir?”
“Oh, yes; that, of course.”
The long morning’s evolutions were gone through, the band went to the front, and the regiment was marched back to barracks; and that same afternoon, as Dick sat alone in the reading-room, copying a band-part for Wilkins, there was a panting noise close behind him, and Brumpton’s thick, rich voice exclaimed:
“Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. How are you, Smithson?”
“Quite well,” said Dick, smiling in the non-commissioned officer’s face.
“Don’t—don’t do that,” said Brumpton, sharply.
“Don’t do what, Mr Brumpton?”
“Laugh at a man.”
“You don’t think I was laughing at you?” said Dick, gravely.
“No, no—of course not. You wouldn’t, my lad. But, my word! how you are growing, Smithson! It’s the drilling. You have altered since you came.”
“Have I?”
“Wonderfully, my lad—wonderfully! Men showed up well this morning,” he continued, seating himself.
“Capitally,” said Dick.
“Couldn’t hear what the colonel said, could you?”
“Every word.”
“But you couldn’t see, could you?” said the sergeant, appealingly.
“Oh, yes; two great slits, with the stuffing coming out.”
Brumpton groaned.
“I say, why don’t you make the tailor take all the padding away?” cried Dick.
“I did beg and pray of him to, but he wouldn’t. He said it would spoil my figure, and I should look fuller and fatter. Oh, dear! I never thought, after working as I have in the regiment, that I should live to be laughed at like this!”
“Oh, don’t mind that. I couldn’t help laughing, too, Mr Brumpton. It did look rather comic.”
“To you, my lad—to you; but it’s death to me! I shall be turned out of the regiment on a pension. Me going out on a pension at my time of life! But it must come.”
“Don’t let it,” said Dick. “You’re a young man yet.”
“Yes; six-and-thirty, Smithson—that’s all.”
“Well, will you let me speak plainly, Mr Brumpton?”
“Of course, I will, my dear boy; I always liked you from the day when you came up to me and wanted the shilling. I said to myself then, ‘This chap’s a gentleman—’”
“Oh, nonsense—nonsense,” cried Dick.
“Ah! you needn’t tell me. I know. But I’m not going to pump you. If you want to keep it dark why you’ve run away from home, you’ve a right to. What were you going to say, Smithson?”
Dick was growing nervous and excited, and jumped at the change in the conversation.
“I was going to say that, as it is such a pity for you to grow so stout, why don’t you eat less?”
“Eat! My dear boy, I almost starve myself.”
“Drink less, then. If I were you, I wouldn’t take so much beer.”
“But I don’t, Smithson; I don’t—I give it up ever so long ago—only ginger, and that can’t make me fat. It don’t make no difference whether I eat and drink hearty or starve myself: it all goes to fat. I really believe sometimes that the very wind agrees with me and runs to it.”
“Then do as the colonel said—train, run, use the clubs.”
“I have,” cried Brumpton, “for months; but I only get worse.”
“Don’t sleep quite so much, then.”
“Oh, dear!” groaned the sergeant; “I’ve cut myself down to five hours, and surely that oughtn’t to be too much. It’s no good, Smithson—not a bit! If I was to be shut up in a lump of coal, like a toad, I should go on getting fat till the coal split up the back, like one of my jackets.”
“Well, it does seem hard,” said Dick.
“No, sir; soft—horridly soft,” said the sergeant, and he rose with a sigh. “I’ve felt sometimes that if I get my discharge I shall make an end of myself.”
“Nonsense.”
“Oh, I shall. I’ve often thought of drowning myself, after being laughed at, but I couldn’t do that.”
“I should think not.”
“Fat would be against me there, Smithson; I should only float.”
The idea of the plump sergeant bobbing about, half out of the water, like a cork-float, excited Dick’s laughing muscles; but he saw how genuine was the distress of the poor fellow standing before him, and he forbore, knowing as he did that a good warm heart beat beneath that coating of fat and that Brumpton was a clever officer and devoted to his work.
“I wish I could help you, sergeant,” said Dick, at last.
“So do I, my lad; but you can’t.”
“Have you tried the doctor?”
“Yes—yes,” said Brumpton, dolefully.
“What did he advise?”
“Nothing! Laughed at me.”
Dick sat, tapping the table with his penholder.
“I know how it will be,” continued the sergeant. “I shall be pitched out of the regiment, and then I shall begin to get thin from misery and despair.”
“Going?” said Dick.
“Yes; I’ll just walk round to the canteen and get in the scales again. I try ’em every day, hoping to find ’em moving the wrong way, but I never can. I was seventeen stone thirteen yesterday; next week I shall be eighteen stone, and they can’t keep a man like that in the army.”
“Stop! Look here!” cried Dick, so earnestly that the sergeant plumped down again into his seat, gazing wildly into the young man’s face, ready to grasp at any straw to save himself from being drowned in his misery.
“Yes, yes,” he panted; and he began to wipe his big, smooth face. “Got an idea?”
“I think I could cure you, Mr Brumpton.”
“Could you? How? I’ll take anything. I don’t mind how nasty.”
“I’ve got an idea that I think will work, and, if it doesn’t take down your fat, it would keep you from having to leave the regiment.”
The sergeant made a grab at Dick’s hand.
“What is it? What is it?” he panted.
“Learn the bombardon!”
The sergeant loosened his grasp, and sank back again.
“You’re laughing at me,” he said, reproachfully; “and it comes hard from you, Dick Smithson.”
“I’m not laughing at you, sergeant,” cried Dick, earnestly. “Look here! it’s a thing I have often noticed; but I never thought of applying it to you. Who are the two thinnest men in the band?”
“Those two young chaps who play the trombones.”
“Exactly, and nearly all the fellows are thin. You learn to play the bombardon, and I’ll be bound to say that it will pull you down.”
“Think so?” said the sergeant, with a sigh.
“I feel sure!”
“But how can I?”
“Oh, you could manage that. Tell Mr Wilkins you’ve taken a fancy to learn the instrument. I’ll help you.”
The sergeant looked doubtful.
“Then, if it doesn’t get your fat down, you could come in the band. You’d look splendid, marching along with that great brass instrument!”
“Not chaffing me, are you?” said the sergeant, suspiciously.
“Chaffing? No, man. There, I’ll speak out frankly to show you how sincere I am. It does look absurd to see you puffing and panting along at the double with your company. Don’t be offended.”
“No, my lad—no. It does look very stupid. Nobody knows it better than I do.”
“But, marching with the band, your size would not be noticed, especially as you would be carrying that great brass bass instrument with its huge bell-mouth.”
“Well, do you know, I’m beginning to like that idea, Smithson. But I’m not very clever over music. Big drum seems more in my way.”
“Oh, no. You could soon get on with a bass instrument. Have you ever learnt anything?”
“Tin whistle, when I was a boy.”
“Oh, that would not help you much. You say you’ll try, and I’ll help you.”
“Try,” cried the sergeant. “I’d try bugling;” and he soon after left the room with the understanding that, Mr Wilkins being willing, he was to begin his practice the very next day.